The Daisy Ducks (29 page)

"I don't know what it means, either. I'm
certainly not proud of it. You won the round—it was just a lucky
punch. Er, unlucky punch. Now listen: I'm going down to the pay phone
and call an ambulance. You've got a distressed kidney, and it could
get worse before it gets better."

She sat up and pulled off her sweater, then lay down
on her stomach.

"It doesn't feel so bad anymore. I'll just lie
still. Will you rub my back so I can go to sleep?"

I reached up and stroked the smooth tan skin that was
tight and wrinkle-free over the firm muscle. She turned her face to
me and smiled. A knockout. I felt very young and very old at the same
time. Daisy made little sighs and cooing noises. She raised herself
up on her elbows and shook her hair around. Then she had turned her
face around and it was close to mine. She leaned back on her far
elbow and reached around behind my head with her hand. Then we were
kissing. She didn't rush it.

"Daisy, I don't think —"

She held her finger up to her pursed mouth, then drew
back the blanket. There she was, stretched out in the bunk in her
undies. I tried to move my eyes, but they wouldn't budge.

"Daisy, I, uh, don't think —"

"I like the way you look, Doc. That's one reason
I wanted to come down here. Want to come on in?"

"No. I can't."

She said nothing. She turned over on her stomach
again, and the sight of her panties stretched tight across her
rump—shiny and satiny with the little pull wrinkles in just the
right places—and her long black hair down her back—well, it made
me think. It made me realize that I was a strange mixture of wanton
desires and ironbound restraints. But one thing I knew, and I knew it
even when Janice DeGroot and I were in the phone closet: I loved
Mary. And only Mary. And that I would not jeopardize.

I leaned down and kissed Daisy on her back, watching
the deepening bruise over the small of her back where I had smacked
her. Her dark skin smelled like sandalwood.

"I'll be right back," I said, and put on my
jacket.

She pulled the covers back up and closed her eyes. I
shut the door and began walking toward the pay phone next to the
office, about a hundred yards away. Not far from the door I kicked a
heavy object ahead of me. My Browning. I put it in my jacket. The
phone call was brief: Vance Memorial had only one ambulance and it
was engaged on an out-of-town run. Could I bring the patient in
myself? Certainly. I gave Daisy's name, not mine. In fact, I
speculated about their reaction when they saw me again. The more I
speculated, the more I realized I didn't want to think about it.

I hung up and headed back. Thirty yards from the
camper, I knew something wasn't right. The door was open.

I took out the Browning and slipped off the safety. I
walked around the rig twice. Then I took a deep breath and jumped
inside, landing in a combat crouch and spinning around fast. Nobody
home. I opened the toilet door. Vacant. I called Daisy's name twice.
No answer. Where were her jeans, sweater, and shoes? Gone. Had she
left voluntarily or been taken? She would be hard to take, I thought,
if my experience had been any indication. And then, looking at the
little dinette table, I had my answer.

Sitting there were my binoculars and thermos bottle.
 

20

I WAS STILL SITTING at the dinette table, staring at
the two objects on it, when john Hardesty roused me from my stupor to
say I had a phone call.

I followed him to the office in the early light and
picked up the phone. I was shaking a little; I was expecting it to be
the kidnappers, perhaps giving me secret instructions and a ransom
demand. No such luck. It was Roantis, telling me they'd been delayed
because his car had blown up.

"We're here at an Exxon station in Asheville.
It's on Patton Avenue—you know where that is?"

"No, but I'll find it. Listen, Liatis: they got
Daisy."

There was silence at the other end. Then I explained
exactly what had happened.

"You mean you caught Daisy sneaking around the
camper in the night?"

"Yes."

"And you two fought, and you injured her?"

"Yes."

"Now Doc, tell the truth."

"It's all true. Then, when I went to call the
hospital, they went inside and grabbed her while she was in the
bunk."

More silence.

"Get here as fast as you can. We'll decide how
to do this."

"Will they hurt her?"

"No. They're buying some time. Dat's what I
think. But hurry."

The ride back to Asheville wasn't pleasant. I
couldn't stop thinking about Daisy and what was happening to her.
What about her injury? If she got plenty of rest and enough fluids to
keep her kidney clear, she would probably be line. Still, an
antibiotic would be wise. And if she was mistreated or forced to
travel any distance, the results could be disastrous. I could not
stop blaming myself, even for a second.

On the outskirts of the city, I asked directions for
Patton Avenue and discovered I was on it. I headed in until I saw the
Exxon sign and Roantis's old crate. I swung into the station and saw
Roantis inside with his wallet out. I went in and shook hands with
him. Though he was not a person to show emotion, his eyes were
crinkled up in the corners with tension. Mike Summers was sitting in
a chrome and vinyl chair reading an old copy of
Outdoor
Life
. He looked up and nodded, smiling. But
there was reservation in the smile too. He stood up and talked softly
to me.

"Shame about Daisy, Doc. But don't worry, we'll
get her back. She means a lot to all of us. Only thing worries me is
Royce. If he crazy, he might hurt her. But I don't think so. Daisy's
special. Fact is, that's how we got our name."

"She told me. I think Jusuelo's the one who
nabbed her though, not Royce."

‘
Jusuelo's here?" said Roantis, turning to
face me.

"Looks that way. I thought I recognized him, and
Daisy confirmed it just before she vanished."

"Shit! Worse than I thought."

I felt a big slap on my shoulder and heard a booming
voice to go with it.

"Oh my Jesus! How ah yah, Dawk?"

"What the hell are you doing here?" I asked
Tommy Desmond, who towered even over Summers.

"Figured I got nothing better to do. Between
jobs again."

Tommy Desmond, the laughing, lovable Irishman from
Street in South Boston, was another friend from the BYMCU club. He
spent most of his time fighting off women, or failing to. In and out
of work, on and off the bottle, he sailed through life like the briny
wind off Galway Bay. He could brighten up hell. And it was damn good
to look up into his smiling face. I needed it.

Roantis finished his business and joined us.

"The car will be laid up a few days. Doc, we've
got some stuff to unload. Can you pull your rig closer to the car?"

I helped them transfer their gear. There were duffel
bags, a small grip for Tommy, and two backpacks. Then Roantis and
Summers swung out the rear seat and began handing Tommy and me long
bundles wrapped in brown rust-inhibiting paper. The bundles were
heavy, and it didn't take a genius to figure out what they were. We
loaded all of them as quickly and discreetly as possible. Then we
boarded the camper rig and rolled out of the station. At the first
shopping center, I pulled into an isolated parking spot. We all
gathered around the dinette table. I put on coffee and spread out the
road map of North Carolina. Roantis said he was familiar with the
western part of the state.

"They used to airlift us out here from Bragg for
survival training in the Pisgah wilderness," he said. "It
was a long time ago, though." He sat with his chin on his
thumbs, staring at the road map. "Speaking of Bragg," he
continued, "I've got an old friend on Smoke Bomb Hill. Maybe
I'll give him a call."

I then explained everything that had happened during
the previous four days: every detail concerning the plane crash, the
murder of the pilot, and our visit back to the Royce farm. Roantis
took notes on a napkin; I'd never seen him so serious. Summers and
Desmond listened intently, too, giving low whistles of amazement
several times. The conference lasted forty minutes, at the end of
which Roantis lighted a cigarette and let the smoke dribble out of
his nostrils, like a dragon.

"Here's the way I read it," he said softly.
"I say there's at least six of them, judging by what Doc has
told us. And that includes Jusuelo, who's fierce as hell and smart. I
don't know how many of the rest are trained military men and how many
are punks. But I think, considering Royce knows the country like he
does, that we need more help."

Summers nodded. Tommy and I stared at our coffee
mugs, not knowing what to say.

"I say this cause Doc's had no combat
experience. You, Tommy, it's been since Korea for you, right?"

"Yeah, but I've had some street combat."

"Don't I know it."

"Also," I chimed in, "I thought I'd
let you all know that while I'll do everything to help, I am not
planning on getting any combat experience in the near future. I say
that just so you'll all know."

But Roantis proceeded as if he hadn't heard me. This
was disquieting.

"Now," he continued, "I think one of
two things has happened. One: they've taken her with them on the
highway and are using her as a hostage to protect them while they get
away. I don't think they've done this. It's dangerous and amateur.
And Royce and Jusuelo woun't run like that. Whatever else they are,
they're not cowards."

Summers nodded.

"The other thing is maybe that they're holed up
in some canyon or mountaintop hideout. They discovered both Doc and
Daisy on their tail—fucking things up—and they dint like it. So
they've taken one out—a real pro—and they'll hold her to buy
time. We don't have anything they want. So no ransom money. See? They
want time. Time to get whatever incriminating stuff they've got out
of the way. They know I'm their greatest danger, and they know how I
feel about Daisy. If anything would make me back off`, it's her life
in danger. They figure with Daisy they've got that protection, at
least for maybe a week. Thing is, they don't know I'm down here now,
ready to go. They won't expect anyone nudging their perimeter wire
right away."

He snubbed out his Camel and hissed out the bluish
smoke. "But . . . if they have taken off, then we've got to tell
the police. If they're on the road, we can't trail them without
police help. So, first thing is, we go to the police."

"And . . . ?" I asked.

"And while they're watching the roads, we'll be
tracking 'em in the bush."

"We will?" I asked.

"Yep, and that includes you, Doc. We need every
man we can get."

I found myself nodding in agreement. I hunched over
the table, feeling a flush of excitement sweep over me.

"Now, here's what we'll do. We'll go first to
the highway patrol. Then I'm going to make a few phone calls. After
that, we'll head out there. Doc, you still have Freddie's phone
number?"

"Who? Kaunitz? You're calling him? Listen,
Liatis, we'd better have a talk. I think he might be involved with
Royce."

He stopped and thought for a few seconds, then shook
his head.

"Naw," he said,
half under his breath. "Okay then, let's get moving."

* * *

By nightfall, a lot had happened. First, I rented a
motel room on Patton Avenue. We stowed some of the conspicuous
hardware under one of the beds there. The room would hold two men
while the other two shared the camper. Next, Roantis and I went to
the Buncombe County courthouse and found the sheriffs office, where
we explained Daisy's abduction and Roantis gave them a snapshot of
her. I also explained, as diplomatically as I could, my connection
with the various recent events in Graham County. The desk officer was
courteous and cooperative, but told us to stay where we could be
reached. He promised to get in touch with the proper officials in
Graham County. I could just imagine their reaction.

Then we all went to a sporting goods store that sold
rock climbing gear and hiking equipment and bought maps. We also
bought gear from big bins of army surplus clothing. Roantis was all
set, but the three of us needed bush pants, jackets, field boots,
floppy bush hats, and backpacks. All the clothing was soft,
comfortable, and cheap. Roantis seemed to spend every spare second on
the telephone. He told us that the next afternoon Fred Kaunitz was
going to arrive at the Asheville airport. Roantis's old buddy from
Fayetteville, a certain Sparkles MacAllister, was due shortly
thereafter.

"Why's he called Sparkles?" Summers asked.

"You'll see."

So that evening the four of us were sitting around a
table in the motel room. Spread out on the table and beds were eight
USGS topographic maps of the region around Robbinsville. These maps,
used by experienced hunters and hikers, are very detailed, with all
the elevation contour marks and landmarks that would enable a skilled
woodsman with a good compass to penetrate the thickest mountain
forest or most remote cove or valley and find his way out again. From
even my brief encounter with the area, I realized we would need all
the help we could get.